


A Midwinter Tale

by Bofursunboundbraids



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Eating, Family Feels, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Injury, M/M, Parent Death, midwinter celebration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofursunboundbraids/pseuds/Bofursunboundbraids
Summary: One winter, long ago, a young hobbit was without a family and a couple was without a faunt...In which Bilbo and Thorin travel to Buckland, and the magnificent Brandy Hall, to ask a young hobbit if he'd like to come live with them.This is a gift for Spacewalk...I hope you enjoy it! :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacewalk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewalk/gifts).



> I've never written a Bagginshield family fic before, but when this idea popped up in my head, I knew the holiday season was the right time for it.
> 
> I'm playing a little loose with canon, as far as ages are concerned. The story takes place in December of the year 1380 (by Shire Reckoning). Bilbo and Thorin are the ages they're supposed to be, according to canon (90 and 234, respectively). For this story, I imagined Frodo being the equivalent of a ten year-old human, while Sam is about 8 or 9. As far as the One Ring is concerned, I'm going with The Hobbit -1st edition, where the ring is a merely a magic ring and nothing more.

_Clop, clop, clop_

The only sound that rang through the stillness of that cold, winter day was the steady rhythm of the shaggy pony’s hooves as it pulled its merry burden along the Great East Road. At the reins sat a dwarf, once a king, but now a gentle and very well-respected personage in and around Hobbiton. The clop of the hooves was so steady and mild, he felt himself being lulled into a light snooze. Before the second eyelid could droop, however, his pipe was placed in his hand, already lit.

“Thank you, luv.” Thorin said, and with the pipe clenched tightly between his teeth, he gave the pony a gentle slap of the reins, just to make sure it wasn’t walking in its sleep.

“My pleasure, dearest.” Said the dwarf’s love, a hobbit of some renown. The infamous Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, sat on the wagon seat beside his husband, tamping down the weed in his own pipe. Bundled up between them, munching on an apple and swinging his legs, was Samwise, the Gaffer Gamgee’s wee faunt, much too excited by the prospect of all that he’d been promised on this trip to succumb to drowsiness.

“How much longer, Mr. Bilbo?” Sam asked around a mush of apple pulp.

“Oh, not much. We’re sure to reach Brandy Hall by sundown. It is only mid-day, so a couple of more hours. Isn’t that right, Thorin?” Bilbo touched a flame to the bowl of his pipe.

“Aye. We should be there just as the sun slips away in the west.” Thorin smiled down at the dear little hobbit child and ruffled his tarnished golden locks. Looking up, he caught the eye of the one who shone brighter than all the gold he had left behind in that stone mansion, far to the east. He couldn’t help, not even after all the years they had spent with their lives and hearts entwined, blushing like a kid upon meeting his first fancy. Bilbo, chuckling, puffed on his pipe, wondering if it was possible to feel more content and right with the world.

*

The journey had been easy, for the most part, despite it being almost mid-winter. The snowfall had been steady, but nothing unreasonable, and the Great East Road, being the one most traveled in and out of the Shire, was clear. The travelers had only to enjoy the beauty of the winter scene, snuggled inside their best woolens while Bilbo made sure their stomachs were full and happy, a large hamper of food within easy reach. Despite how pleasant the journey had been, two days on the road with a stop at a comfortable inn in Frogmorton, they were all looking forward to reaching their destination. Brandy Hall was the grand, ancestral home of the Brandybucks, and it had been some years since Bilbo had travelled the miles to visit his Brandybuck relations. He only wished this journey could be under better circumstances.

It had been mid-August last when the letter had arrived, informing Bilbo that his dear first-cousin Primula, along with her husband Drogo (a more distant relation), had both been lost in a boating accident on the Brandywine. A week later, a solicitor appeared on his doorstep, having travelled from Buckland with the details of Primula’s will. It was at his kitchen table, set with a pot of chamomile tea and a plate of biscuits, that Bilbo had learned it had been his cousin’s dearest wish that he should take custody of her young son, Frodo, if anything should happen to her and her husband. Primula had made the decision during a visit by her wonderfully eccentric cousin and his kind, if slightly intimidating, husband, during the early days of her pregnancy. And, after the baby made his entrance into the world, Prim met with her family’s trusted counsel and put her intentions into writing. To Bilbo, the conditions of his cousin’s will came as a complete surprise, but despite this, there was never a moment when either he or Thorin considered passing on the opportunity to raise the faunt as if he were their own.

Due to circumstances beyond their control, the expectant couple had to wait until near the Yule holiday to make the trip to claim the boy. The decision to bring Sam had seemed only natural. Bilbo had spent many an afternoon with Sam on his knee, filling the lad’s head with stories of the wild and wonderful places and things he’d seen, including Buckland and Brandy Hall, which might’ve well been the other side of the world to one born to such a simple life as Sam. Bringing Sam along would open his eyes a bit wider to the world outside Hobbiton, as well as introduce him to, as was the hope, a new friend.

*

“Sam, my lad. Wake up. We’re here.”

Sam came awake from gentle nudges and the voice of the kindly Mr. Bilbo near his ear. He opened his eyes to a blaze of golden light. After rubbing the sleep away, he saw that the light came from what must’ve been a hundred windows, as well as a large open door, all of them round in the manner of hobbits. He sat upright, amazed by what he was seeing. Here were all of the stories he’d been told of the mansion that took up the whole side of a hill, looking right at him.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Cried a voice belonging to a gentlehobbit, who was grey about the temples and nearly as round as he was high. Rorimac Brandybuck came bounding out of the grand doorway. “Ahhh...Bilbo!” He exclaimed, catching his cousin up in a fierce hug. “I’m glad you’ve arrived safe and sound...and just in time for dinner! Thorin!” And the dwarf was given the same demonstrative treatment, being family after all. “It’s been too long. Too long... and who is this fellow? Don’t tell me! Master Samwise Gamgee is it? At your service, master Gamgee,” Rorimac bowed to the lad as Thorin lifted the faunt from the wagon, placing him gently on the ground. Sam was quick to bow as his father had taught him.

“Thankee, mister Brandybuck. Thankee fer havin me.”

“My pleasure, master Sam. Now! Let’s get you all in and settled. I’ll have my lads bring in your luggage. As I said, dinner is just about to begin. The boards are practically groaning with vittles and it not yet being Yule day! Hah!” Rorimac rejoiced, declaring his delight at his family’s prosperity, and he led the road-weary threesome into the hall.

With his hand held securely in Bilbo’s, Sam walked, not watching his feet, but looking about, eyes agape. He had thought Bag End a grand home, but he didn’t think he would ever know anything to be grand if it not be Brandy Hall. Oh! If only his old Gaffer could see this! Sam knew there was no way his father would believe this place could be real without seeing it with his own eyes. The entrance way was set with wooden floors, polished to a high shine, painted walls and, hanging from the ceiling which seemed to Sam to be impossibly high, was a lamp bearing hundreds, THOUSANDS, of tiny candles, and sparklies, like glass snowflakes, that reflected the light a million-fold! Everywhere there were portraits of the most noble looking hobbits, past masters of the hall and their offspring, hanging on walls which were also decked in boughs of evergreen on account of the season. There were also many handsome pieces of furniture, carved and polished to also reflect the light. Sam had never before been in a room lit so bright one would thing the sun itself hung from the rafters. And, in the center of the immense space was something Sam had heard about, but never seen in any hobbit hole before... a staircase!

It was up this staircase that master Rorimac (“Just call me ‘Old Rory’, lad. All the faunts and tweens do!”) led his guests, until he reached a door at the end of a long hall. Pushing it open, he stepped aside and in Sam walked. Upon looking around, he felt he was looking at the coziest room he’d ever seen. A fire burned merrily on the hearth, and the bed was piled high with downy quilts and fat pillows.

“And for master Samwise,” Old mister Rory walked over to a couch at the foot of the bed that had, itself, been made up, complete with quilt and fat pillow, like a bed. It was just big enough for one very special, very hungry faunt. His stomach chose that moment to rumble, loudly.

“And I couldn’t agree more!” Rory laughed so hard his belly shook. “As soon as you lads are settled, come right down. Everyone is looking forward to seeing you.”

“Thank you, Rory, for this. I just wish...” Bilbo’s voice faltered as it hit him just how much he missed Primula.

“I know...I know. I miss my wee sis, too. Well!” Rory clapped Bilbo on the arm. “Come down when you’re ready.”

After performing their ablutions and donning fresh shirts and waistcoats, Bilbo, Thorin, and Sam made their way to the dining hall. This room threatened to top the entryway, in Sam’s estimation, in terms of size and brilliance. At one end blazed a magnificent fire on the largest hearth he’d ever seen. It was so large, he was sure Mr. Thorin could walk into it and not even bump his head! And there was a table, long and covered in a white linen cloth, at which sat so many people, he wondered if it was more than what lived in Hobbiton. Along one wall was another table, covered with platters of food, so much food! He could make out everything from roasts and savory pies, to side dishes a plenty and pudding - SO MUCH PUDDING! Perhaps, if he asked nicely, Mr. Bilbo would let him start at the pudding end of the table first.

Unfortunately, neither Mr. Bilbo nor Mr. Thorin were much keen on his starting with pudding, so Sam piled his plate with all of his favorite things; roast chicken, steak and kidney pie, pickled eggs, mushy peas, fluffy yeast rolls with butter, and a heaping pile of mashed potatoes with plenty of gravy. At the table they sat, Sam between his minders, his feet dangling above the floor, as Bilbo cut his meat for him and watered down a little wine poured in a faunt-sized goblet.

Sam tucked into his meal with an especial enthusiasm, glad to be eating his first hot meal since that morning at the inn. Around him, the grown ups talked of things that didn’t interest him much; yearly wheat yields, sheep breeding, the uptick in large folk passing through Buckland...

Chewing thoughtfully on a crisp bit of lamb, Sam looked down the table and noticed another faunt, sitting quietly and only picking at his plate. This boy was a little older than himself, pale and little thin with brown curls so dark they were almost black. Curious, Sam watched him until the boy looked up at him with the largest, bluest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Being a friendly little soul, Sam smiled, showing off the gap where there once had been front teeth, and lifted his hand for a small wave. The sad boy quickly looked away, dropping his eyes to his own hands, settled in his lap.

“Mr. Bilbo?” Sam tugged at Bilbo’s coat sleeve, the arm in it holding a glass of spiced claret. “Who is that?”

“That?” Bilbo managed to set his glass down without spilling a drop. “Why, my dear Samwise, _that_ is Frodo Baggins.”

“Oh. Is he the one we’re bringing home with us?”

“Yes he is.”

“He looks nice, but sad.”

“Do you remember what I told you about his mum and pa?”

Sam nodded. “Aye. I do Mr. Bilbo. I remember. I think I’d be sad too if I were to lose me mum and pa forever.”

“I think you would be, too. Just remember that. Frodo may not want to be friendly right away, but it doesn’t mean he never will. Now, eat your dinner like a good lad and then you can have some pudding.”

The promise of pudding was all the encouragement Sam needed to clean his plate and, when it was, back to the buffet he went, to chose from the numerous cakes and pies and cookies. Thorin made Sam laugh when he attempted to take an entire mince pie back to the table, only to be scolded by Bilbo for not offering to share it with him.

After everyone had finished their pudding, and pushed their large bellies from the table, Old Rory stood up and entreated the gentlehobbits to join him in the smoking room. He had devised a new way of smoking pipeweed that didn’t require a pipe and he was eager to share it with his out-of-town guests. Bilbo had barely stepped away from the table when he was surrounded by a circle of lasses, all of them Brandybuck cousins, all of them fair, round in cheek as well as figure, giggling and blushing. Before he knew what was what, he was being herded into the parlor, the object of fascination as they questioned him about what it was like to be married to such a one as his Mr. Thorin, who, himself, was locked deep in a conversation with his neighbor at the table, Gorbulas Brandybuck, an adventurous sort who had travelled as far east as the Bruinen and as far west as the sea. Bilbo caught his husband’s eye, who silently chuckled at the sight of his darling, round, snowy-tressed love surrounded by pretty girls. In to the smoking room disappeared Thorin, and too did Bilbo go to meet his fate.

“Is he hairy ALL OVER?” Asked Celandine, once they were behind the closed doors of the parlor. She was an impetuous lass nearing the age of majority, whose parents were eager to marry her off before she set tongues wagging with her antics, and therefore hurting her prospects of a good match.

The question caused Bilbo to choke a bit on the sherry he’d just taken a sip of. He was actually more than a little impressed with himself that he had retained enough of a hobbit’s sense of decorum to be a bit flustered by the lass’ bold enquiry.

“My goodness, Cellie, what a question..” But before any more of this could continue, the girls' mother Hilda, née Bracegirdle, had come into the room with the other ladies, and soon a lively game of charades was started. Sam, who had followed Bilbo into the parlor and was sitting on the floor at his feet, tried to participate in the game, but soon lost interest, what with all of the giggling and shouting and general mayhem going on. Who knew tween lasses could create such a bloody racket?

Getting to his knees, Sam looked around for something, or someone, to divert his attention. In the corner, sitting in an overstuffed loveseat, was Frodo Baggins. He was sitting alone, a book in his lap, and not paying a bit of attention to the silly girls and their game. This told Sam that this Frodo Baggins was an intelligent sort, and he meant to get to know him better. Crawling up on to the couch, he whispered in Bilbo's ear. When Sam pulled back, an expectant look on his face, the old hobbit said, "Remember what I told you. He may not be ready to play, not quite yet. Promise me you'll respect that."

Crossing his finger over his heart, Sam made his promise and, climbing down from the couch, made his way slowly, almost cautiously, over the where Frodo sat, so as not to startle him and frighten him away, as he did whenever coming across a coney's burrow. Frodo didn't seem to notice him, even when Sam stood directly before him.

"Hello, Mr. Frodo." Sam said, trying to hold his excitement before this possible new playmate at bay. "I'm at your service, sir." he said, suddenly remembering his manners and bowing. Frodo looked up from his book, and again Sam was struck by what felt like a grain bag full of sadness coming from those extraordinary eyes.

"Hello." Frodo said, the faintest shadow of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

"I'm Samwise." Sam beamed. "I come with Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin from Hobbiton."

Frodo only nodded, his eyes dropping back to his book.

"Ya know yer letters? I know 'em, too! Mr. Bilbo has been teaching me. Can I see what yer reading?" And before he was invited to sit, Sam climbed up on the loveseat, scooting up next to Frodo. Looking down at the book, Sam could see the pages contained large pictures and very few words, quite the opposite of the numerous books Mr. Bilbo owned, piled in stacks about Bag End. Sam easily made out the words on the page.

" _And the brave Bullroarer, tall he did stand, with one swing of his club, took off the goblin's head_." Sam read out loud. "I know that one!" He excitedly informed Frodo. "Old Mr. Bullroarer Took! Why, he is the most famous-est of hobbits! Did you know that?"

Frodo nodded. "He's my kin... on my mother's side." He said, quietly, deep sadness returning to his face, and that tiny little smile that had tried to bloom, withered away. The word mother was a reminder to Sam of what Frodo had lost.

"I'm sorry," He said, not knowing what to do to comfort his new acquaintance. So, he did what came first into his head, and he took Frodo's hand in his own. It surprised him that Frodo didn’t pull away, but instead squeezed Sam’s hand, even if he did keep his eyes on the book.

"Sam? Samwise, my lad." It was Bilbo, trying to stifle a yawn. "It's time for bed. Hello, Frodo."

Sam extricated his hand from Frodo's grip and slid down on to the floor while Bilbo knelt down before the sad little faunt.

"I'm looking forward to talking to you tomorrow.” Bilbo said, his voice gentle. “I have something exciting I need to ask you. Would that be all right?"

Frodo nodded, "Yes, sir."

"You can call him your Uncle Bilbo, dearest." Aunt Asphodel said, appearing beside Bilbo. "Come along, it's time for all wee ones to get in to bed. You can play with Sam come morning time." She had been caring for Frodo ever since her sister’s death. As much as she adored her nephew, she felt her sister’s choice of cousin Bilbo to look after Frodo was a wise one. She and her husband had already raised a son, and she knew Bilbo and his Thorin would give the boy the kind of home, with plenty of love and guidance, he needed.

"Good night, Mr. Frodo," Sam bowed and, taking Mr. Bilbo's hand, was led out of the parlor and through the mansion and its maze of halls, back to their room where already waited Mr. Thorin, who was just setting a pot of tea water over the fire. He was also ready with a kiss for Mr. Bilbo, who patted his furry face and called him by a strange, foreign word that sounded like it started with the letter "G".

After the water had reached a boil, Sam was handed a cup of peppermint tea to soothe an over full tummy and, already in his pajamas, he asked Bilbo to retell one of his favorite stories; the one about the dragon that slept on a pile of gold and the clever little burglar who stole a jewel from right under its nose. But Bilbo never had to reach the end of the tale, for Sam fell fast asleep, curled up in Thorin’s lap. After laying the faunt in his couch-bed, the dwarf climbed up into the four-poster, next to the beloved soul he’d been sharing a bed with for many years.

“Sam spoke to Frodo in the parlor.” Bilbo whispered, after snuggling up to Thorin, his head on his husband’s chest.

“Did he? How did he do?”

“Well, I think. You know Sam, he’s a friendly little chap.”

“Aye, that he is. And Frodo?”

“Oh...the poor lad. He’s hurting something terrible, but it looked to me like he wanted to break out of his sadness. He’s just not ready to allow himself that.”

“Well, if anyone can put a smile back on his face, it’s Sam. And you, my love.”

“It won’t just be me, ghivashel. He’ll have you as well.”

“Aye. I’m looking forward to having a wee one in the house. One we can call ours.”

“I love you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin kissed the top of his hobbit’s head. “And I love you, Bilbo Baggins.”


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Verily, merr’ly, we roll along_!”

Sam slapped his mittened hands on his legs, keeping time with the song the jovial group of tree hunters sang as they tromped through the snow. The young hobbit was having the time of his life, sitting on a sled with his new friend, Frodo Baggins, and being pulled by the immensely strong Mr. Thorin. It was the day of 1 Yule, and Brandybuck tradition decreed that all the strong lads go out to find some nicely shaped fir trees to bring back to the hall. Thorin was quick to offer his arm for both the chopping down and hauling away of these trees, while Bilbo was keen to watch his husband flex his muscles that were still strong and delightfully firm. Old Rory made mention of a most excellent sledding hill, not far from where the grove of the finest trees could be found. Sam and Frodo, who had found each other at the breakfast table that morning and been bound to each other’s side since, both became quite insistent that sledding was the most brilliant thing that had ever been invented and, “Can we, Mr. Bilbo? Can we _please_!”

Bilbo was still chuckling over the excitement on the faunts’ faces, particularly Frodo, who had managed, and was still maintaining, a rather convincing grin. He followed the path, his heart light and his hand clutched securely in Thorin’s, hoping this was all a good omen that, when it came time to ask, Frodo would be quite willing to become a member of the little family that lived in Hobbiton, under the hill.

It wasn’t too long before that grove of beautiful fir trees came in to view, and a bit beyond, a hill that looked as if it had been made explicitly for young hobbits to race down. Old Rory had had the sled pulled from the storage shed, out by the barn, apologizing that it was an old thing that hadn’t seen much use in recent years. Sam, however, thought it the sleekest, slickest mode of conveyance he’d ever laid his eyes on. Where the green paint had been rubbed off, through years of hard play, Sam saw a fine patina, like that on some of the bits of armory and such that Bilbo and Thorin had hanging on the walls of Bag End, relics of their journeys to places far and strange. To Sam, it was if the sled had, itself, seen adventures of a wild and dangerous nature, and he couldn’t wait to feel that thrill as he and Frodo raced down the hill upon it.

“Hey ho, my lads! Away with you, but be careful and mind any rocks poking out of the snow. And don’t go too fast!” Bilbo yelled after the boys as they took off, tugging the sled behind them. He watched as they waved, laughing, the excitement of the hill before them eclipsing the concern of one old hobbit.

“Don’t worry about them, love.” Thorin wrapped an arm around his husband. “They’ll not be so far away that we won’t hear them should they need us.”

Bilbo patted the hand that held him. “I know. Feeling a bit like a mother hen right now, know what I mean?”

“Aye, I do at that. Come on, mum.” Thorin gave Bilbo a kiss on his forehead. “Let’s find the kids a lovely tree.”

*

“Hold on, Frodo! I’m going to start counting.”

Frodo sat upon the sled, clutching the tow-rope tightly in his hands, as he grimaced down at the precipitous drop that lay before him. The hill hadn’t seemed quite so treacherous from the bottom. “Okay.” He said, trying not to let Sam hear how nervous he was. “I’m ready!”

“1...2...3... GO!” And, with all the strength he could muster, Sam pushed the sled, hopping on at just the moment it passed the edge of the crest. At first, the sled seemed to move along at a bit of a staid, slow rate, but just a few seconds in to their run, the lads felt the hill’s incline sharpen by a degree or two and speed suddenly seemed to be a thing without limit.

“WOOOOO!” Frodo hollered, at the top of his lungs, all of his previous anxiety gone. He couldn’t remember having ever felt so thrilled before. The frosty air was whistling in his ears and making his eyes tear, but he didn’t care. And, as soon as it seemed they had reached a speed never before experienced by any land-treading creature, they had reached the bottom of the hill, sliding along until they gently plowed into a bank that sent both boys rolling off the sled into the snow, laughing until their sides hurt.

“That was bloody BRILLIANT!” Sam declared, feeling so brave after that run that he just had to swear, making Frodo gasp before erupting in even more giggles.

“It was, wasn’t it? _Bloody_...” Frodo said that last word under his breath. “Don’t let my Aunt Asphodel hear you say it. She’ll have us both in our rooms with no tea.”

“Awww, me ol’ Gaffer lets me say it all the time.” Sam fibbed, which would’ve, if his pa had heard him, earned him a swat on his behind as well as no tea. “Come on! Let’s do it again!”

So, up the hill the boys ran, pulling the sled behind them and, when they reached the top, down they raced, feeling less danger mixed in with their excitement, and a lot more fun.

It was on their sixth descent that Sam was beginning to feel a little peckish and his thoughts turned away from the technicalities of sledding to the vittles in the hamper the grown ups had brought along with them. Not paying too much attention to where he was pushing the sled, Sam hopped on once it went over the edge, but the sled swerved slightly, charging down with a bit of a different trajectory, bypassing the smooth, well-traveled path and heading down an even steeper slope.

They never saw that large rock, hidden, just under a thin layer of snow.

Sam, being on the tail end of the sled was flung, heels over head, in to the air, and came down, not so gently, rolling until he came to a stop. He sat up, rubbing at a sore spot on his leg and trying to brush away the snow that had slipped under his scarf and down his neck. It was a few seconds before he recognized the pained whimpers he was hearing were coming from Frodo.

“Frodo! Oh dear, oh dear! Are ye hurt bad?” Sam flung himself down at Frodo’s side. The poor little faunt sat in the snow, cradling his right wrist, tears streaming down his wind-rouged cheeks.

“I think I’ve broken it.” Frodo said, weakly, before breaking down in to full-fledged sobs.

“Oh!” Sam sat, frozen in the snow. Here he was, having just found a new friend and he’d already broken him. He knew he had to get help. He needed Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin there, as soon as was possible.

“Sit here and don’t move.” Sam instructed, wrapping his own scarf around Frodo’s wounded wrist. “I’m going to go get help.” And, after giving Frodo a kiss on the top of his dark, curly head, he ran off, hollering, “Mr. Bilbo! Mr. Thorin! Help!” as loud as his little boy’s voice could yell.

*

Bilbo was sipping from a flask of spiced spirits and watching Thorin, dazzled by the sight of brawny forearms as his husband rolled up his sleeves, preparing himself to bring down a near-perfect example of an evergreen, when he thought he heard a voice on the wind. Lowering the flask, he listened and... _there_! He had heard something.

“MR. BILBO! MR. THORIN!”

It was Sam.

Looking at Thorin, Bilbo saw his husband had also heard the faunt’s voice.

“Oh dear, doesn’t sound good.” Bilbo said, handing the flask back to Rory.

Thorin was already heading toward the sounds of distress, and Bilbo followed, along with Rory and some of the lads. It wasn’t long before they caught sight of Sam, _sans_ scarf, running as fast as his little legs could carry him.

“What is it, Sam?” Bilbo asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was feeling. “Where’s Frodo?”

“We were sledding, Mr. Bilbo, and having a right jolly time, but then we struck something and fell off and Frodo...he...”

“Yes, Sam, what about Frodo?” Bilbo asked, the leaden weight in his gut growing heavier.

“He hurt his arm. I think it might... be... _broke_.” And now Sam found it was his time to break down into big wailing sobs.

Thorin was already running off in the direction Sam had come from and it took no time at all to locate Frodo, a small, dark spot in a vast, white expanse.

“Shhh...shhh...lad.” He cooed. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. Let’s go take a look.”

Frodo looked up at Thorin with his big blue, tear-reddened eyes and held his wrist out for the dwarf’s inspection. The delicate joint was most definitely injured, having turned an unfortunate shade of deep purple and swelling something awful.

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” Thorin asked and, when Frodo did, a collective sigh of relief came from all of the grown ups who had gathered around, but no sigh was as relieved as the one that came from Samwise.

Scooping Frodo up in his arms, Thorin carried the lad back to Brandy Hall. Bilbo walked at his side, Sam’s hand in his, wondering at the image they created of a family, one both he and Thorin had wished they could’ve had for many years. He sent a prayer of thanks to his dear Cousin Primula, wherever her spirit now resided, for the dear gift she had left them, and promised to love her wee one with all of his heart.

*

  
“How does that feel?” Thorin asked, gently rubbing the balm on Frodo’s tender, bruised skin.

“Better, but it still hurts.” Frodo said before taking a bite of his egg salad sandwich. They were sitting in the parlor, before a merry fire, taking tea and mending sore bodies.

“And it will for a little while, I’m afraid.” Bilbo stirred a lump of sugar into his tea. “But, it doesn’t look to be broken, so you should mend soon.”

“Thank you, sir.” Frodo set his sandwich down and clutched at the sleeve of Thorin’s shirt, twining the fabric between his slender fingers. “For rescuing me.”

Thorin smiled, the dear, sweet child making his heart swell. “It was my pleasure, master Baggins.”

“He rescued me, once, you know.” BIlbo took a sip of his tea before setting the cup back on its saucer, the porcelain making a comforting _clink_. “Long ago and very far away.”

“Were you in terrible danger?” Frodo asked, his eyes growing wide.

“I _was_.” The corners of Bilbo’s mouth curled as he threw some emphasis on his words. Telling tales to wee ones had become something of a specialty for the old hobbit, and he never tired of telling this particular one. “There was a terrible battle, with many foes all around. And I, being a hobbit and not much of a warrior...”

“You are being much too humble.” Thorin interrupted as he wrapped a length of cloth around Frodo’s hand and wrist, bandaging it up tight.

“Shush, darling. I’m telling the story." Bilbo mock-scolded. "Now, being in such a battle, it wasn’t long before I was knocked to the ground by a rather nasty blow to the head, and I slept like a...a...” He had been about to say “like a dead person”, but decided not to. Not in front of Frodo. “Let’s just say I slept until the battle was nearly over. How’s that for a nifty bit of Baggins luck? Anyway, I slept until I heard my name being called, in a much worried tone, and hands were touching my face and rubbing my hands. When I opened my eyes, who do you think I saw, right away?”

“Who?” Frodo asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“I know! I know!” Sam shouted, waving his hand about in the air. The remnants of the soup he had for lunch lined his mouth and the crusts of a devoured ham and cheese sandwich sat on his plate. Bilbo nodded towards the lad, giving him permission to blurt, “It was Mr. Thorin!”

“Really?” Frodo’s eyes grew wide.

“Really.” Bilbo leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on his round belly. “Mr. Thorin had just defeated his mightiest foe, and was wounded himself, but he had rushed to my side and, lifting me in his great, strong arms, he carried me to an enormous ram, setting me on its back. Then, hopping up behind me, we rode, _lickety split_ , down the side of the mountain.”

“Was the ram as fast as our sled?” Sam asked, pilling tea cookies on his plate.

“Faster.” Bilbo answered. “In no time at all, we were back, safe and sound, inside the mountain kingdom.”

“Is that when you and Mr. Thorin got married?” Frodo asked

“No... not quite.” Bilbo reached for his tea cup, blushing. Memories of those first months, that winter in Erebor after the battle, and of their, his and Thorin’s, discovery of one another and the realization that their lives were bound together by love and respect and a desire to never be without the other, warmed his blood. Even after all their long years together, they had never lost the spark that ignited the fire that burned between them. “But we were married in the mountain, with dear kin and friends about us.”

Frodo leaned back in his chair with something like a sigh. “That’s so romantic.”

“Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin are the best of gents, even if they can’t have faunts of their own.” Sam blurted

“Samwise!” Bilbo scolded, “That’s not proper conversation for the tea table.”

“Sorry, sir.” Sam apologized,

Frodo was confused. “But I thought all married hobbits had faunts.”

“Well... not all. Ummm... you see, Frodo. Mr Thorin and I are, well, we were both born misters. And, unfortunately, two born misters can’t make a baby. Only a born mister and a born missus can, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Frodo slumped in his seat, pondering the injustice of that particular arrangement. Certainly Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin deserved a faunt of their own.

Bilbo looked at Thorin, a question in his eyes. Was this the right time? Thorin nodded, having read the question correctly. Taking a deep breath, Bilbo took the plunge.

“Now, Frodo, I’m going to ask you a question. I don’t want you to answer right away. I want you to think about it. All right?”

Frodo nodded, wondering what in the world could make the magnificently brave Mr. Bilbo, who had traveled far and wide and met all of the strange creatures that walked the earth, go a bit pale and nervous. “All right.”

“Your dear mother was... well... we were very close. She wanted, should anything happen to her and your pa, for you to come live with me and Thorin.”

Frodo sat up straight, “She did?”

“Yes, she did. Now, you know we, Thorin and I, can’t have faunts of our own, but... we would dearly love to have you come live with us in Hobbiton.”

The very idea wrapped its warm arms around Frodo’s brain as he looked for evidence that it was too good to be true. “What about Aunt Asphodel and Uncle Rufus?”

“They love you very much, Frodo, but they know that you’ll be loved and well-cared for and have so many new friends to make of the other faunts in town.”

“I’ll be your friend, Frodo!” Sam offered, willing to do what he could to get Frodo to say yes to Bilbo’s proposition.

A brilliant smile appeared on Frodo’s face and he looked quickly from Sam to Bilbo. “You said not to answer right away...”

“I did.”

“But I really badly want to say yes right now.”

A smile broke out on Bilbo’s face that he couldn’t contain. He looked at Thorin who was trying, equally hard with as little success, to contain his happiness. Bilbo nodded, and Frodo could see light twinkling in his eyes. “I’m very, very happy you want to live with us. But I still want you to think about it. I’ll ask you again tomorrow, and we’ll see if you still want to. All right? Good! Now, I think it’s time you and Sam lay down for a nap. You’ve had a very exciting day. Come on Sam, time for a nap, no arguments now. Thorin, dear...”

Thorin stood up and held his hand out to Sam, who went with him to get ready for his nap, but not before Sam flung his arms around Frodo, hugging him tightly, then running back to Thorin. He was yawning before they left the room.

Bilbo took Frodo down the hall to the rooms he shared with Aunt Asphodel. She opened the door to his knock.

“Here’s the lad, a bit worse for wear, but still all in one piece.”

“He wouldn’t be Prim’s if he weren’t testing his limits.” Asphodel said, chuckling as she welcomed her small charge in to the room.

“Yes, indeed.” Bilbo well remembered Primula’s un-hobbitlike sense of adventure and daring, not unlike his own mother, Belladonna Took. “We had a conversation that I want him to think over until tomorrow.”

“Do you have an idea of what his decision will be?” Asphodel leaned forward, whispering.

“I do.” Bilbo nodded, smiling. “I do. but nothing is official until tomorrow.”

“This is good news. Indeed, good news.” Asphodel squeezed her cousin’s arm. “See you at supper, dear.”

“Yes.” Bilbo bowed his head. “Til supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 coming very soon!


	3. Chapter 3

That evening, after the lads had wakened from their naps and washed their faces and donned clean shirts and trousers, they were lead down to the dining hall where they had last had supper. This time, however, the tall, double doors that lead into the hall were closed. Frodo and Sam pressed their ears to the door, trying to make out the commotion that was going on inside.

"Is Mr. Thorin in there? I think I can hear his voice." Sam asked, eager to know what was going on. Bilbo rolled back on his heels, his hands behind his back, and looked up at the ceiling, wearing a rather knowing smile.

"Oh, he might be... and he might not."

"I can hear footsteps coming this way!" Frodo exclaimed, backing away from the door and into his aunt, who wrapped her arms around him, kissing the top of his head. It did her heart a world of good to see her nephew so excited and happy, for the first time in many months.

Sam backed up, excitedly grabbing a hold of Bilbo's hand. There was, in fact, someone coming towards the door. And it wasn’t just one someone, it was many someones... and they were singing!

_Ring ho lad! Rang ha lass!_  
_Raise up yer voices_  
_And fill yer glass!_  
_The merry days of Yuletide_  
_are here at last!_  
_Ring-a-rang-come-merr'ly!_

The doors flung open and eyes had to squint against the brilliant light that flooded out of the room. Old Rory stood at the front of the jolly band of Brandybucks and other relations, wearing a bright red waistcoat, a sprig of holly in his buttonhole. He flung his arms wide, a mug of ale in one hand, his pipe in the other.

"Happy Yuletide, my lovelies! Come in... come in... There's a celebration to get started!"

Frodo and Sam were the first to race through the doorway and in to the light, the source of which amazed their eyes. Standing against a wall that boasted an impressive tapestry of the immense Brandybuck family tree, were three beautiful evergreens, each of them towering to a height of six and a half feet, at the very least! Each tree had been decorated with delicate ornaments fashioned out of glass and tin, in the shapes of woodland creatures, birds, snowflakes, leaves, mushrooms, and acorns. And, on the end of each branch, was a small candle, its flame reflecting off the ornaments and filling the room with that magnificent light.

Little Samwise stood silent, his mouth agape. He had never, in all his life, seen anything quite as brilliantly beautiful as the sight of those trees, that a tear ran down his face. Frodo, who was quite accustomed to such a display, but still delighted right down to his toes, took Sam's hand in his.

"Don't cry, Sam." He whispered in his friend's ear. "It's Yule. No time for tears."

Sam rubbed the water from his eyes and smiled at Frodo. He had always felt something of a baby, crying in front of other faunts, but not with this one. Somehow he knew Frodo understood that sometimes a thing can be so beautiful, only tears can say what words cannot. He looked up at Bilbo just in time to see Thorin take his husband in his arms and plant a right proper kiss on him, causing both boys to giggle and pull a face, sticking their tongues out as way of stating their opinion on adult displays of affection.

"What are you lads waiting for? Come look! See what's there under the tree for ya!" Old Rory announced. Frodo and Sam joined the handful of other young ones, who were gleefully locating small parcels wrapped in colored paper and ribbon. Sam was quick to find the one with his name written on the tag, wrapped in red paper. He waited for Frodo to find his before sitting down on the floor, before the trees, and ripping the paper unceremoniously away to reveal a pony and cart, carved from wood and painted in gay colours. Sitting on the bench of the cart was a hobbit farmer, behind him a bushel of shiny red apples. Delighted, he immediately began rolling his cart along, imaging all of the adventures his farmer will have once he gets him back home to Bagshot Row.

"Look at the fine pony and trap I got, Sam." Frodo showed his new friend his gift. Indeed, it was just as fine a contraption, a dandy two-wheeler with a hobbit lad at the reins, a pretty lass at his side. The lads were so pleased with their gifts, they almost forgot that supper was being served.

"Sam... Frodo, dear... if you don't come to table soon, there will hardly be anything left." Bilbo said, as way of encouragement, and the boys flew, laughing, to the sideboard. Quick, they were, to fill their plates and find their places, side by side, at the table, their new toys set before them, to be admired while they ate.

And this is how the night went on. Everyone in attendance was having the jolliest of times, eating and drinking and making merry. The most notable of all, however, was Frodo, the poor faunt who had, until that day, been quiet and sorrowful, but no longer! He talked and laughed, eating more, his aunt remarked, than she'd seen him eat since that awful day when he lost his parents. And when supper was over and the adults were taking their brandy and sherry, Frodo and Sam joined the other faunts, playing many exciting rounds of hide-and-seek. So much fun was he having, that Frodo nearly forgot all about his hurt wrist.

"Samwise, luv, it's time for bed, I'm afraid." Bilbo, his arm linked with Thorin's, announced just as Sam was issuing his first yawn of the evening. Reluctantly gathering his farmer's cart, Sam waved good night to the Brandybuck cousins who had proved excellent playmates. Before toddling off to bed, he made sure to give Frodo the biggest of hugs his little arms could manage.

"I had the bestest fun, today, of all days!" Sam announced.

Frodo gave Sam a smile, bright despite the sleepy look in his eyes. "So did I, Sam. The very bestest."

Taking Bilbo's hand, Sam waved to Frodo until he had left the hall and he could no longer see him.

******

The next day, the first of the new year, dawned with a heavy snowfall that only increased as the morning went along. Not being able to go outside to play, Frodo and Sam, bent on having an adventure, ran off after breakfast on a mission to explore Brandy Hall and its many rooms and hallways, nooks and crannies.

At one o'clock, on the nose, Aunt Asphodel went looking for the boys, to call them in for luncheon. She eventually found them in Old Rory's library, sitting together in an overstuffed armchair, helping each other read aloud from a book of hobbit history. In the middle of the rug were left their toys, trap and cart parked next to an imaginary river while the lad and lass offered tea to the farmer in exchange for some of his apples. It didn't take much to divert Sam and Frodo's attention from the tale of the hobbit pioneer, Gorehandad the Oldbuck, for their bellies were starting to rumble.

Luncheon was already laid out when they arrived at the parlor, and enough chairs sat around two tables pushed together to accommodate the Messrs. Bilbo and Thorin and the boys, as well as Aunt Asphodel and Uncle Rufus, who had spent most of his Yuletide holiday at Brandy Hall enjoying some pipeless tobacco and discussing techniques for producing the finest crop of hops with anyone who had an ear or an opinion.

Seated side-by-side, Frodo and Sam devoured their slices of tender roast beef with mustard on thick slabs of crusty bread, talking a mile-a-minute to each other and the adults at the table. Everyone was still quite astounded at the change in Frodo, for the lad had been such a wan, quiet little body, immune to any and all attempts to cheer him up. Now, he was much more the self he'd been before his parents' passing, a happy little boy with very few cares in the world.

"Well, then." Bilbo said, patting his lips with his napkin, his belly as full as it could be for the time being, "How about some gifts, then, my lads? I know I left them somewhere around here..." Before the old hobbit had a chance to haul himself out of his chair, Frodo and Sam were up and sprinting to a long couch, climbing up and sitting as still as was possible, their swinging feet and barely suppressed giggles giving away their excitement.

From a well-worn leather satchel, Bilbo pulled a package adorned with ribbon and a sprig of holly, its bright red berries still attached.

_For FRODO BAGGINS, who has so MANY adventures ahead of him, with love from Uncle Bilbo._

Carefully peeling the paper away, Frodo revealed a book, thick with many pages and bound in beautiful red leather with gold lettering in a lacy script he was unfamiliar with. Opening it, he found lots of words, all in familiar letters and of the common tongue, with an illustration here and there and even little figures and flowers tucked about in the margins.

"It's a book of stories - old, OLD stories - most older than our Thorin." Bilbo chuckled, patting his husband's leg. "They're tales of when the earth was still new and magic was in the water and under every leaf."

Frodo looked up from the page he'd been perusing, "This is about elves!" He said, his eyes wide.

"Mr. Bilbo knows all about the elves... and dwarves too." Sam gave a quick look to Mr. Thorin, who gave him a smile and a nod. "He even promised to take me to see them, when I've grown a little taller."

"I've seen elves, walking in woods at night." Frodo whispered, closing the book and pressing it to his chest. "Will you take me to see them, too?"

"Of course! Of course, we will!" Bilbo emphasized the point with his pipe in his hand. "When you've grown a little taller as well. I promise. Now, where did those other gifts go to... ah!" From inside the satchel, Bilbo produced a gift for Sam, an illustrated book about the ferns and flowers that grow in the gardens of Bag End. Thorin also had presents for the boys; finely crafted toys of painted tin that, when tiny keys were turned, made a bear stand up on its hind legs while balancing a tray of tea things on its front legs, and an eagle flap its wings in a perfect imitation of flight. The squeals of delight brought smiles to all of the adults in the room, even stoic Uncle Rufus couldn't help beaming between puffs on the stick of rolled weed Old Rory had gifted him.

Frodo watched the wings of his eagle while they slowed and eventually stopped. Setting the toy aside with his now, most cherished book, he climbed up on the couch, squeezing himself between Bilbo and Thorin. Taking a hand in each of his, he looked between the kind old hobbit who had promised him magic, and the dwarf with his scars and whiskers, gentle hands and twinkling blue eyes. And he nodded.

"Yes." Frodo said, quietly. "Yes." He looked over at Aunt Asphodel and Uncle Rufus, who had been so kind and patient with him after his parents' untimely death. "I would like to go and live with Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin in Hobbiton."

Aunt Asphodel put her hands to her mouth to try to squelch the happy squeal that erupted, while Uncle Rufus nodded, saying. "Fine, that's just fine, my lad. Well chosen." Sam, who was not quite certain why adults insisted on holding back when receiving the best news ever, jumped to his feet, _YAHOO!_ -ing with all he had. Bilbo and Thorin wrapped Frodo up in a collective hug, and received kisses on their cheeks for the trouble.

Ever since beginning their life together, in Bag End under-the-hill, all those many years ago, Bilbo and Thorin had discussed the joy a child would add to their already happy home. And now that dream was becoming a reality. Of course they both would've done anything, if indeed there had been anything they could've been done, to bring Frodo's parents back from those far distant shores and return him to their love and care, but all they could do was offer up all of the love and care they had in their hearts and make a home for the child. The curious thing was that one might be tempted to entertain, just for a moment or two, as Asphodel did, watching her nephew interact with her cousin and his mate, the notion that Frodo was indeed a child of their making, what with his soft, looping curls and touch of Tookish mischief about the mouth that was so like Bilbo and brilliant blue eyes - a near perfect match to Thorin's. The resemblances were quite curious, indeed.

Sam, as content as he had ever been in is young life, grabbed a slice of lemon cake from the lunch table before plopping himself back down on the floor where he wound the key on his tea-balancing bear and watched the fellow make his way across the floor, not losing a single cup on the way. Later, Thorin would show him that the bear, freed of his porcelain burden, could walk on all fours, as well as his front legs without once tipping over.

"I once knew a bear who lived in a handsome cottage, far on the other side of the Misty Mountains." Thorin would also tell him. Bilbo had to assure the lad it was true.

"It was at that very same cottage that a pony and a dog aided me in cleaning a wound Thorin had received due to some very unpleasant fellows we had met on the road."

Sam had laughed at that, thinking it another of Mr. Bilbo's wonderful tales, for how could bears serve tea and dogs play nursemaid? But Frodo, who had been listening intently, asked, "Is this true?"

"As true as the hair on my chin." Thorin said. He laughed when Frodo came over to inspect those hairs, tugging lightly on the beard the dwarf had let grow to a proper length for a son of Durin.

"I think I'd like to be a dwarf, tall and strong with a great big beard - just like you Uncle Thorin."

Thorin pulled Frodo, so small and delicate in his large hands, onto his lap. "We'll see what we can do about that, _madtithbirzul_." And then he was being kissed by the hobbit, his darling Bilbo, who had shown him just how merry life can be. Frodo giggled, while Sam made a face, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

"I hope you can get used to all of the kissing, Frodo. They do that an awful lot." Sam warned before winding up his bear and setting him off to prowl in search of wayward crumbs of cake and cheese.

******

The days of Yule quickly passed, and the inhabitants of Brandy Hall filled each of those days with as much food, song, and pipeweed as any blessed group of hobbits possibly could. When the day of departure came - crisp, cold, and very early - the pony, which had been very well-cared for in Old Rory's stable, and was fat and shaggy as ever, was hitched up to the wagon. Sam and Frodo helped with the loading of luggage, all-the-while Sam described in imaginative detail the places and faces that made up his little corner of Hobbiton. When all was packed and ready, thanks was given for hospitality received and promises to not stay away for so long were made. Faunts were lifted up, on to the bench of the wagon, with Bilbo and Thorin climbing up on either side, and with a flick of the reins, the wagon began to move and farewells were called until both hall and wagon had faded in the distance.

The journey home passed as peacefully as its predecessor, despite there being a bit more snow on the ground and one more faunt to ask how much longer until second breakfast, elevenses, lunch... "Will we be having tea, Uncle Bilbo?"

Bilbo laughed. "Not today, my lad. Sometimes adventures require us to go without the comforts of home, such as tea..."

"Pocket handkerchiefs." Thorin mumbled under his breath, his eyes catching Bilbo's for a second before they rolled in the old hobbit's head, making him chuckle.

"Yes, yes... as I was saying, Frodo, adventures sometimes make us late for dinner and that isn't an all-together bad thing. Oh, it may seem it at the time, but you'll come to realize that... sometimes... something new and wonderful will take its place." Bilbo didn't miss the grin that spread across Thorin's face and the extra flick of the reins he gave the pony. Pulling out two small red apples, he handed them to Frodo and Sam before pulling out two more for Thorin and himself. He watched as Thorin bit into the shiny flesh of the fruit, juice running over his full, plump...biteable... bottom lip and into his beard. Wiping the juice away with the back of his hand, Thorin looked over at BIlbo, giving him a look that held a promise -

"As soon as we're alone, _ghivahshel_ ," it said, "I'm going to do to you as I did this apple."

All of a sudden, the muffler wrapped about his neck and the stocking cap on his head had gotten quite too warm for him and Bilbo yanked them loose and off. "How about we sing a song, hmm? I'll teach you one of my favorites. It goes like this..."

_Roads go ever ever on,_  
_Over rock and under tree,_  
_By caves where never sun has shone,_  
_By streams that never find the sea;_  
_Over snow by winter sown,_  
_And through the merry flowers of June,_  
_Over grass and over stone,_  
_And under mountains of the moon._

And, for the remainder of their journey, the happy little family of sorts sang and talked and napped and snacked and imagined the many adventures that lay before them.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing credits:  
>  _The Road Goes Ever On_ by J.R.R. Tolkien
> 
> So concludes my offering for the _Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday 2018_ gift exchange. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> A big inspiration for me, for this fic, was the series of essays the American writer Washington Irving (1783-1859) wrote regarding his experiences while staying with an English family in their grand manor house during Christmas. They read sort of like early 19th century travel blog posts, which is fun if that time period is your thing. They're collected in the anthology "The Sketch Book" which also includes _Rip Van Winkle_ and _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. 
> 
> And, of course, many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating such a wonderful world, and characters, to play with. Cheers, Prof!


End file.
